


The Adventure Of The Violin Virtuoso (1886)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [47]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Doctor Sexy M.D., Fraud, Ireland, Jealous Dean, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Seasickness, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 11:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10718193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock's sole Irish case, in which Watson meets a character from a book, and the great detective uncovers a cunning murder plot involving a fellow violinist.





	The Adventure Of The Violin Virtuoso (1886)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fishwink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishwink/gifts).



I was not going to be sick, I was not going to be sick, I was not going to....

Myself and most of the pie that I had enjoyed for lunch what seemed like a lifetime ago in Cork ingloriously and horribly parted company, the regurgitated pastry disappearing down the ship's side. I moaned piteously.

“I am sorry”, came a familiar voice from alongside me. I would have turned to glare at him, but I sensed instinctively that any sudden movement would be unwise. Unfortunately my current wretched state meant that this thought was a little slow to arrive in my brain, and I turned to glare at him anyway.

I had to turn back quickly. And there went the rest of the pie.

+~+~+

My publishers made me promise, in writing this extended “Elementary”, that I would refrain from teasing my readers as I so often did the first time around by mentioning yet more cases that could not be discussed for 'reasons'. Sadly, there is no way round it in this instance, so I shall just say that we were about to travel back from Ireland after attending to a case there, one which had taken us to the fair town of Limerick. I had expected Holmes to wish to hurry back to London as soon as possible – he seemed to fear that criminals would exploit his rare absences to run amok – but instead he wished to stop at the small town of Mallow before going on to Cork and the ferry home. I asked him why, and he explained that his mother, the redoubtable (terrifying) Lady Rebecca Holmes, haled from there before she had been taken to London as a child. 

The reader may wonder, at this point, why I did not mention this, Sherlock's sole visit to Hibernia. Today (1936) the Irish Free State is a sovereign nation in all but name; however, things were very different at the time of this case. It had been only fourteen years since the passage of the Secret Ballot Act, aimed at stamping out electoral fraud in England, had had the inadvertent effect of allowing the Catholic Irish to vote without fear of the consequences, with the result that the country now returned a solid 'Irish bloc' that, at this particular time, backed the Liberal Party. The latter had split over the issue of Home Rule for Ireland, with the result that the Conservatives and Liberal Unionists had seized power at the general election earlier that year. Then more than now, the actions of a few hard-core extremists who thought that blowing up people and buildings would somehow advance their cause had poisoned Anglo-Irish relations, and had it been widely known that my friend was half-Irish, he would certainly have found his life much more difficult. It was unfair, but it was the way of the world.

Unfortunately, on leaving behind Sherlock's 'home town' and eventually reaching Cork, I made a stupid decision. I suggested that we take the ferry boat connecting the town with its port at nearby Queenstown rather than the railway which ran the long way around the bay. The nice, solid, grounded, not jumping about all over the damn place railway! And I still had the whole crossing to Plymouth to face tomorrow! Assuming that I could drag my stomach onto the boat, that was.

The worst thing was that the journey over to the Emerald Isle, the week before, had been wonderful. The sun had been shining, the sea had been flat calm, and I had really enjoyed it. But twenty minutes across a supposedly sheltered harbour, and I was hurling over the side. I prayed that we would be able to find a chemist that sold seasickness powders; I would pay a month's salary for them right now.

Well, a couple of weeks' worth, at least.

+~+~+

Sherlock, bless the man, saw my very evident discomfiture, and suggested instead that we return to Cork and move along the coast to Rosslare, where we could make the much shorter crossing to Fishguard in Pembrokeshire. I was grateful for that, but asked for a day in the small harbour town to recover, which he accepted. That small delay was to drag us into this, our next case, and a meeting with someone I had thought quite unreal.

I did not pretend to have high tastes when it came to literature, and one of my guilty pleasures was the weekly feature in the “Strand” magazine (which has some excellent story-writers, by the way!) concerning the activities of the fictional Doctor Bedford Sacks at the Seattle Mercy Hospital in the United States. His antics were such that he was known as 'Doctor Sexy', and I could well relate to the woes of a handsome medic who had women (and men) swooning every time he drew near.

I can just hear someone rolling their eyes at me right now!

They say that one should strive never to meet those one idolizes, and I was about to find out just how true that was. Sherlock and I had just finished breakfast – yes, he had had half my bacon; that had not changed just because we were in another part of the United Kingdom – when a figure approached our table. It was a strikingly handsome man of about thirty years of age, the most incongruous thing about him being that he wore cowboy boots for some reason. Just like my he.... like a certain character I knew.

“Gentlemen”, he said, “I am Doctor Stefan Sæcksi. May I be permitted to join you?”

Sherlock nodded his assent, and the man sat down. 

“I work at the Sisters of Mercy Sanatorium”, he explained, “a little way out of town. We are somewhat isolated, and yet news always seems to reach us before it does most people. When I heard that a famous detective was in town, I realized that it was an opportunity not to be passed up.”

My eyes narrowed. He was giving my friend the same sort of predatory look that I had once seen from that dratted Cornish fisherman out in the Scilly Isles. It was bad enough having almost every female on the planet simpering at Sherlock; if the men started it too, I would.... well, I would not be happy.

“You have a case for us?” Sherlock asked. I was sure that the doctor got in another leer before answering.

“I am not sure”, he said. “It is all very curious. I only came to this country four years ago, so I had to look it up, but do either of you recall the case of a Mr. Charles Peace?”

I jumped instinctively at the name. It will mean nothing to modern generations, I suppose, but the original 'Charlie Peace' had been a notorious burglar and murderer who by his actions had shocked even a Victorian England not unused to criminal excesses. He had been caught and quite rightly hung some seven years since. I supposed that it was a moderately common name, so there had to have been other 'Charlie Peaces' out there somewhere, although I personally would have changed my name had another 'John Watson' committed such foul acts.

“I do”, I said. “A very dangerous man, of whom the world was well rid.”

“Indeed”, he said (I noticed that he continued to stare at Sherlock rather than acknowledge me, which I considered quite rude). “As I am sure you gentlemen are aware, the name is not uncommon, and we recently had a man sign himself into the Sanatorium for a period of rest under the name 'Mr. Charles Peace'. I did of course carry out some checks, and that is indeed his name.”

A maid brought some more coffee, and Doctor Sæcksi made a point of allowing Sherlock to have the first cup. I began to distrust him even more; only I knew my friend well enough to do that.

“My inquiries and my examinations of the man showed that he was what he claimed to be”, he said, “and that he had a brother, David, who lived in a large house just outside of the town. The two were twins – fraternal, not identical – and came from a small village near Baltimore, along the coast. From what I can gather they seem to have fared very differently in life, since Mr. David Peace is quite rich whilst his brother has little or nothing. And that brother...”

He paused, took a sip of his coffee and managed to leer at Sherlock yet again. Now I definitely did not trust him.

“Mr. Charles Peace has threatened the life of his brother on two separate occasions”, he said. “And when I approached Mr. David on the matter last week, he most definitely took it as a serious threat. He has decided to sell his lands and quit the country, and is leaving on the “Doric” when she calls here on Thursday, two days from now.”

“So we may presume that he takes the threat seriously”, Sherlock said, downing his coffee in one go as per usual. Doctor Sæcksi looked suitably impressed, and threw in another leer. 

“You see”, he said, “the problem is that Mr. Charles Peace has only signed himself in as a voluntary patient at the Sanatorium. There is nothing to stop him leaving it and carrying out such an attack.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. 

“Was not one of the brothers a violinist at one point?” he asked. Doctor Sæcksi nodded.

“Mr. Charles Peace did have a position with an orchestra in Cork”, he said. “But his character was such that he soon lost it, I am afraid. One of the nurses said that she heard him play one time, and described it as 'heavenly'.”

“Well, we must strive to ensure that his brother reaches America rather than heaven”, Sherlock said. “It does sound a most intriguing case, doctor. Thank you for bringing it to our attention. We shall visit Mr. David Peace today.”

The doctor smiled at him. To me, it looked more like another leer, but I kept my opinions to myself.

+~+~+

“I would have thought that you would like meeting a real-life Doctor Bedford Sacks”, Sherlock teased, as we were driven out to Mr. David Peace's house. My friend had spent the morning making certain inquiries in the town, and was evidently pleased enough with the result to find the time to annoy me.

“I only rarely read such nonsense”, I said loftily.

“I had thought you were more interested in it”, he sighed. “You see, friend, there was even a book of his collected adventures published at one time.”

“I know”, I said. “I went round all the bookshops, but none of them had it in sto......”

One day. One day I would learn to think before opening my mouth and firmly implanting my foot. His eyes twinkled at my confession.

“So you are interested”, he beamed. “That is good. Luke has a friend who owns a shop that can get almost any book, and he has promised to secure me a copy for your Christmas present this year.”

I was so grateful for such a kind act.

“Besides”, he went on, “the real Doctor Sæcksi is quite handsome, is he not?”

And there went the gratitude! I huffed and looked pointedly away from him.

I could still see the smirk, though!

+~+~+

The Victorian Gothic novel has, perhaps predictably, faded in popularity in this modern age, but those acquainted with it will recall how, so often, the action took place in a lonely, isolated building designed by someone who had apparently been eating the wrong sort of mushrooms. For some considerable time. The skies would be dark, the wind would be howling, and there would probably be the odd bat (or at least a shadow of some flying creature that one fervently hoped was a bat!) in the vicinity. I myself rarely if ever wasted my time reading such literary trash (and if anyone said otherwise, there would be some serious pouting!), but I knew all too well how things worked, and was glad that such scenarios were so few in real life.

Except, of course, here. Typically the rain was becoming a thunderstorm as our sorry little carriage made its way up to a dark, be-towered monstrosity whose only redeeming feature was the barrage of trees that spared its unfortunate neighbours from having to look directly at it. It was not yet two o'clock in the afternoon, but night seemed to be closing in already. The building was dark and unwelcoming, and looking at it as we approached, I had been left with the distinct impression that it had not been well maintained. A strong wind might well topple it, with us inside!

I shuddered because it was cold. No other reason.

As we stood on the steps, I could hear the sound of a violin playing from inside the house. The leering Doctor Sæcksi had arranged the meeting, so we were expected. Still, the manservant who opened the door to us looked us up and down as if we were something that the cat had dragged in (given my friend's usual appearance, he was at least fifty per cent justified in that approach). We were shown into a small waiting-room whilst he went to inform his master that we had arrived. 

After what seemed like an age, the manservant returned, and ushered us through a cold hall to a large door that could have delayed a fair-sized armed assault. The fact that it opened with an ominous creak did nothing to settle my frayed nerves, but I kept a calm demeanour. I was not afraid.

“Nervous?”

How I suppressed what would have certainly been a very manly expression of surprise at the words of a genius who was far closer than I had thought, I do not know. I shot him a dirty look, and he smiled innocently. Bastard!

“Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, sir”, the manservant announced, before withdrawing.

A man stepped forward into the firelight, and I did not have to have been a doctor to see that he was in very poor physical condition. He could have been anything between thirty and sixty-five; he was so gaunt that it was hard to tell. A violin hung loosely from his hand, and he looked at us in something like surprise.

“You came”, he said softly. “Good.”

My fevered brain chose that particular moment to remind me that if we were both murdered out here, our bodies might never be found. I told it to shut up!

The man replaced the violin in a plush-looking blue-lined case and closed it, then sat down in his chair. I presumed that we were expected to take the couch, and Sherlock followed me over to sit opposite our host.

“We are here about your brother”, Sherlock said. I noticed that, as the man sighed, even his breathing was difficult.

“Charlie and I have been here nearly a whole year now”, the man sighed. “In that time we've gone from close kin to him wanting to murder me. And all because of money.”

“We were both violinists, gentlemen, but he was much the better. Unfortunately he did not have the wits to use his God-given talent; as fast as money came in, he would spend it. And then our grandfather died and we both came into a substantial sum – but with a catch. Old Grandpa Jo knew Charlie's character, and we both had to live off just the interest from the capital for six months. He couldn't, and so forfeited everything for want of a few extra drinks every night.”

“What happened to his inheritance?” Sherlock asked.

“Grandpa arranged it so that, if either of us messed up, all his money would go to the church”, he said. “There's a substantial plot of land up in Larne, not far from Belfast, which adjoins a convent. The land itself is not worth that much, but if it was given to the sisters, they could sell it along with their own land – they want to move somewhere anyway; their place is falling down around them, I hear – and make a decent profit.”

“And doubtless they would spare a few prayers for a generous benefactor”, Sherlock smiled. “I do not however see where your brother fits into all this.”

“As I am sure your medical friend can see, I am in poor shape”, our host said. “It's some condition that they say is hereditary, and both Charlie and I have it, though he's in better shape. I have never wanted to marry, knowing that any sons or daughters I had would almost certainly be afflicted thus. I am not in any pain, but I will never be what they call 'whole'.”

“Because of that, all my money, including the church lands of which I am temporary guardian, goes to my brother Charlie. And he needs it; he is in hock to all the sharkies – the moneylenders; that's what we call them round these parts – for a serious amount. I was prepared to settle his debts before leaving, but with the threats that he has made against me of late, I am no longer so inclined. Unfortunately MacFaddyen – my lawyer – is a friend of his, and I do not trust him when it comes to making a new will. I am sure that he could word it in such a way that it could easily be challenged.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“I have an idea”, he said. “But I would need you to be guided by me in this.”

“Of course”, our host said.

+~+~+

I noticed one odd thing as we left. Sherlock seemed to spend some time staring at the manservant.

“Was something wrong with his appearance?” I asked, as we were being driven away. “You do not think that he is working for the man's brother, do you?”

“Every man has his price”, Sherlock said, a little sententiously, I thought. “But no. I am quite sure that the manservant is not working for Mr. Charles Peace.”

As so often, I had the sense that there was more to his words than it seemed. And as so often, it was followed by the knowledge that there was little or no chance of my ever finding out just what!

+~+~+

I wondered if Sherlock would mount some sort of guard against the murderous Mr. Charles Peace, but it seemed not. We did not even go to the Sanatorium to interview the latter, although at least that spared us from the attentions of a certain leering doctor, which I did not miss in the least.

On the Thursday, however, the doctor came to us. The Good Lord owed me for that!

“Mr. Charles Peace has disappeared!” he exclaimed. Sherlock sighed.

“I expected as much”, he said.

We both stared at him.

“How could you know that?” I asked. 

“I am glad that you have come into town”, Sherlock said (and I noticed that he had evaded my question), “because I fully expect there to be an important development in the case today.”

I scowled as I caught Doctor Sæcksi leering at my friend again. I thought silently to myself that the only blessing was that we were far from London, and would soon be leaving this unlovely medic behind us for good.

“What development?” he asked. “I received a telegram this morning asking me to visit my friend in Cork, so I am off soon.”

“I would advise you not to go”, Sherlock said, to the surprise of both of us. “You will find it instructive to telegraph your friend to confirm their request, and you will find that they did not send that telegram.”

“How could you know that?” the doctor asked suspiciously.

“Because someone wanted you out of the way today”, Sherlock said. “Your presence here would have been a hindrance to what has been a very cleverly planned crime. If you do not believe me, step across to the post-office and check.”

The doctor looked at him uncertainly, but did as he was told, before returning to join us. If the message was indeed genuine, then he could always do as we had memorably done, and take the direct ferry across to Cork rather than the long railway route. An hour passed, and he got his answer when a boy ran up with a telegram, which he read. His face dropped.

“Fergus did not send me a message”, he said, frowning. “But why would anyone want me out of the way?”

Sherlock smiled, and gestured to the approaching figure of a policeman.

“I think that the answer to that draw nigh”, he said. “Greetings, constable.”

Sherlock has pointed out Constable Patrick Flint to me the other day, a tall and angular young fellow who, I suspected, was not as simple as his open face suggested (although on the plus side, at least he was not prone to unmerited leering!). He came up to us and nodded to Sherlock.

“Looks as if you were right, sir”, he said dourly. “They pulled a body out of the harbour half an hour ago, and Mr. David Peace has already identified it as his brother.”

“Already?” I asked, surprised.

“They were in the restaurant opposite, him and that manservant of his, all ready to depart this afternoon”, the constable explained. “Looks like the end of Mr. Charles Peace - again.”

“Not quite”, Sherlock said. “Where is the body, constable?”

“Taken to the mortuary, sir”, the man said. “Why?”

“We need to see it”. Sherlock said firmly.

“I don't think Mr. David would....”

“We are talking murder here”, Sherlock said firmly. “A murder that has been most successfully covered up thus far. Constable, I know that it is irregular, but the three of us need to see that body!”

+~+~+

I took a deep breath before nodding to the constable, who looked pale himself. He drew back the cloth over the dead man. There was an astonished gasp from behind me.

“Who the blazes is that?”

We all turned to look at Doctor Sæcksi, who was staring at the body in astonishment.

“That's Mr. Charles Peace, sir”, the constable said, clearly confused. “He was a patient of yours.”

“I have no idea who this fellow is”, the doctor said firmly, “but that is not Mr. Charles Peace. I would stake my life on that!”

“Then who the hell is it?” the constable demanded.

“That”, Sherlock said flatly, “is something that we may never know.”

+~+~+

I did not smirk when Sherlock told our leering medical acquaintance that he must stay out of sight when we met Mr. David Peace before he left. 

I did not smirk much!

“Constable”, Mr. Peace said, clearly surprised at the policeman's presence. “Come to see us off?”

“Indeed, sirs”, Constable Flint said dourly. “If you don't mind....”

He moved faster than I would have thought possible, and had Mr. Peace handcuffed before he could do anything to stop him. Sherlock had similarly moved round behind the manservant, whom he had also restrained. Both men struggled against their binds.

“What is the meaning of this?” Mr. Peace demanded angrily. “I shall have you sacked, Flint!”

“Mr. David Peace, I arrest you on charges of murder and fraud”, the constable said. 

Then he turned to the manservant.

“And Mr. Charlie Peace, I likewise arrest _you_ on charges of murder and fraud!”

+~+~+

“It was very cleverly planned”, Sherlock explained later, as the four of us (yes, including the leering doctor!) sat down to dinner. “The brothers set out to defraud a great number of people, and nearly succeeded.”

“The characters of the two brothers intrigued me, and I saw their plot quite soon. For example, there was the violin playing.”

“But both brothers played the violin”, I objected. He smiled.

“True”, he said, “and you remember that we heard violin music from the house. But that piece, which is called “La Dolheureuse”, is exceptionally demanding to play; I have never mastered it myself. When playing such a piece, even using the rest leaves a discernible mark on the collar and neck. There was just such a mark on the neck of the manservant of Mr. David Peace and, on making further inquiries, I found that that man was hardly ever seen around town, and had never been seen with Mr. Charles Peace. Because he was Mr. Charles Peace.”

“Charles lives the low-life and runs up huge debts, as we were told”, he went on. “What no-one spotted was that his brother was also deeply in debt; indeed, had he died, then his brother would have inherited virtually nothing except the fairly worthless convent land, which was covenanted to them. The two of them would then decamp to the New World, leaving their debts behind them, and doubtless start the whole ramp again.”

“Unfortunately, they needed a scapegoat – a body that could be identified as Mr. Charles Peace. That, doctor, was why the false telegram was needed, otherwise there was the risk that you might do what you did, and identify the body as not your patient. They murdered some poor vagrant whose only crime was to bear a vague resemblance to Mr. Charles Peace, whose 'brother' was handily eating nearby and was able to save the police a lot of work by identifying the body.”

“The bastards!” the constable ground out. Sherlock nodded.

“Indeed”, he said. “Fortunately they will soon be somewhere rather warmer than the New World, and the doctor and I can return to London.”

I groaned inwardly at the prospect of the sea-journey ahead of me. Sherlock turned to me.

“Except that I spoke to Mr. McFaddyen, and it would help if someone went to Larne and sped the transfer of those lands to the convent”, he said. “And the crossing to Galloway is infinitely shorter.”

I knew there was a reason that I liked him.

“England sounds most attractive”, Doctor Sæcksi said. “I may go there myself one day.”

I gave him such a look. _Over my dead body!_

+~+~+

The Irish justice system moved fast, even allowing for the fact that both brothers' guilt was beyond question and they pleaded guilty, and they were dropped almost before we were out of the country. Sherlock took me via Dublin, where we spent a pleasant day touring the sights, and then onto Larne and its convent.

Where the Mother Superior, seventy if she was a day, simpered at him! Honestly, I could not take him anywhere!

+~+~+

Postscriptum: Queenstown, subsequently renamed 'Cobh' by the Irish Free State, was a principal port of call for westbound liners taking many Irishmen and Irishwomen to a new life across the Atlantic. It was later famously associated with two tragic ships; the “Titanic” made its last port of call there on its maiden and fatal voyage in 1912, and three years after that the “Lusitania” was sunk by a German U-boat, some distance to the south-west of the port.

+~+~+

In our next case, someone seems to be trying to manipulate the great detective.


End file.
